


Husband

by FoundlingMother



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Merpeople, Don’t copy to another site, Forced Marriage, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kidnapping, Loki and Thor Are Not Related, M/M, Orkney Mythology & Folklore, Warning: Loki (Marvel)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-09-24 05:10:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20352931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FoundlingMother/pseuds/FoundlingMother
Summary: Finfolk are sorcerous shapeshifters of the sea, known to drown or kidnap unsuspecting fishermen, or frolicking youth, and force them into lifelong servitude as a spouse.Thor swears to repay the mortals' hospitality by defeating this monster terrorizing their waters.





	Husband

Furious waves batter the cliffside of Orkneyjar.

Norsemen toast and make merry, playing host to their god with mead and song and young, buxom women, despite the storm beyond the coast.

Thor adores Midgard. The Midgardians’ naivety is matched by their exuberance. He never spends a dull moment in their company.

And he surely entertains them.

Lightning arcs through the sky. Strikes and splinters across Mjölnir’s surface. Startled yelps and excited gasps echo throughout the gathered crowd, followed by a hearty cheer and another swig of mead. Thor’s laugh booms like thunder.

The celebration carries on.

* * *

Despite being akin to a god, Thor has the same needs as any mortal. Hours of festivities and imbibing result in his body alerting him that he ought relieve himself.

He slips away from the drunken men and women—those that remain conscious—and pisses into a patch of brush growing along the coastal cliffs.

Emerging from the foliage, retying his breeches and adjusting himself, he notices a maiden walking up the path skating the edge of the cliff.

Thor approaches her, intent to offer to escort her back to town, but, as he draws near, he recognizes signs of distress marring her lovely face.

“What sorrow grips your heart this fine night, my lady?”

The maiden startles, raising tearful eyes to Thor. “Forgive me, Mighty God of Thunder. I do not mean to dampen your spirits. Only, my brothers are fishermen, and they have not returned in a fortnight. I fear they have fallen prey to the foul finfolk that hunt along our shores.”

“Finfolk?” Thor questions, sensing a chance to fight a vicious creature and repay the Norsemen’s hospitality.

“They are very territorial. When our fishermen enter their waters, and they take notice, they will certainly drown them, for the finfolk call upon the waves and the storms to thrash and capsize their ships. Sometimes—” The maiden wipes fresh tears from her eyes. “Sometimes they steal away our men and women and force them into marriage, never to be seen again by their kinsmen.”

Tingling sensations race through Thor. He clasps the maiden’s upper arm, raising his other hand in the direction of the bonfire. “Fear not, my lady. None may control the storms as I can. I will rid the waters of these vermin. This I swear.”

Mjölnir lands in the palm of his outstretched hand.

Thunder rumbles.

The maiden’s eyes shine.

* * *

Thor sets out at dawn.

The storm’s passed, but the skies remain hidden behind grey clouds. The surf is flat. Thor stands waist-deep in it.

Children wade out to him, and he hoists them up, tossing them squealing into deeper waters.

Moving down the beach, a procession of men and women carry a small fishing vessel. They set it in the water, preparing it to launch.

Thor, covered in clinging young ones, strides closer to shore. He sheds the children, who race onto the beach screeching and kicking flurries of sand into the air. The Norsemen steady the ship while he climbs in.

Seated, Thor looks back at the mortals, their expressions mixtures of fear and gratitude.

Thor raises his arm, summoning Mjölnir. The hammer arcs through the sky. Gulls cry out and take flight, swooping over the beach and out to sea.

Mjölnir thuds against Thor’s palm. Lightning dances over the uru surface.

The Norsemen look on in awe of their god. The ship launches to the chorus of their cheering.

Thor settles Mjölnir between his legs and takes hold of the oars, rowing at a steady pace away from the shores of Orkneyjar.

The fog grows thick the longer he sails, until Thor finds himself almost lost in the gloom, guided only by the directions of the wind and the sense of last night’s storm, which acts as a compass.

There’s an eerie silence and a stillness to the grey waters drifting beneath his vessel.

Thor reaches for the food packed for him by the Norsemen, confident it is past noon. He eats thoughtfully, careful not to let the ship get off its course to the fishing waters.

Pinpricks across the back of Thor’s neck—the tingling sensation of being watched. Thor frowns, one hand curling atop the end of Mjölnir’s hilt. He studies his surroundings.

The finfolk see him as prey, but theirs will be a clash of predator against predator. Thor feels the battle lust building.

“Help! Please, help me.”

Thor cranes his neck to stare into the murk in the direction of the fatigued, desperate croak. Winds blow over the surface of the ocean, parting the fog, and through it Thor sees the other boat, a figure huddled in the center, thin and fragile. The silhouette is unmistakably Midgardian.

Thor jostles for the oars, rocking the boat beneath him. He changes direction, sailing closer to the figure, rhythmic sound of wood rolling against wood preceding him. After seven strokes, he hears a choked noise behind him. He glances back to check on the mortal’s condition.

Their eyes are wide and sunken. Black hair hangs limp, a curtain concealing their sallow cheeks. Belatedly, they notice Thor examining them. They fumble backward, quaking under the coarse blanket shrugged about their sickly frame.

“Don’t come any closer,” the mortal whimpers more than threatens.

Their ships float shakily apart.

Thor raises his palms. “I am Thor, son of Odin, God of Thunder. No harm will come to you.”

The mortal scrutinizes him. They swallow visibly.

“Prove it.”

The words cut through the distance and pierce some primal delight in Thor. He smothers a smirk.

He hopes the finfolk bear witness.

Thor hefts Mjölnir. Lightning branches from between the outlying clouds, reuniting with the glorious weapon. Thor’s eyes alight with power.

The mortal freezes, gaze flicking across Thor and his hammer.

Thor expels the charge. The surroundings seem more still than before, as if the ocean was holding its breath.

Anticipating.

“Will you tell me your name?” Thor asks, gentle.

The mortal blinks, schooling their dazed expression.

“Ikol Laufeyson.” His voice is revealingly breathless.

“I am honored to meet you, Ikol Laufeyson. I cannot fathom your strength, surviving alone, lost at sea,” Thor compliments, attempting to quiet any lingering suspicions.

“You are alone, too,” Ikol whispers.

“Aye,” Thor confirms.

Ikol’s fingers clench around the fabric of his blanket. He peers at Thor. Thor notes the hunger in Ikol’s stare.

“I have food and drink. I will row you back to shore. Let me closer to assist you,” Thor implores.

Ikol bites his lower lip, glancing away from Thor. “Noble.” He savors the descriptive.

Thor blinks, puzzled. He studies the man’s profile.

Ikol’s mouth moves, but Thor hears no other words. He hears rushing water. Ikol’s eyes snap to the horizon.

Tensing, Thor follows Ikol’s gaze.

A darkness looms in the distance, rapidly encroaching, and Thor knows it’s no storm, but it roars as one.

A massive wave—a solid wall of seawater.

Thor summons winds, battering their vessels closer, no longer waiting for permission. Urgently, he stretches out a hand to Ikol. He clasps Thor’s arm in a sturdy grip and, for a moment, permits Thor’s efforts to transfer him to the other boat.

Then Ikol tugs with surprising strength, and Thor loses his balance. He braces to catch himself on the hard planks of Ikol’s ship.

His fingers meet wood. It melts into seafoam.

Thor tumbles beneath the waves.

Peals of mischievous laughter ring out, no apparent source.

Thor sinks.

He thrashes, arms cutting through murky waters, attempting to swim to the surface, but it never remains in the same place.

The ocean seems to drag him down. It beats at him, pressure rising.

Thor’s lungs burn.

Through the blackness, webbed fingers—brilliantly blue, despite the lack of light—emerge. They sweep across Thor’s shrinking line of sight.

Thor’s head pounds. Thoughts dissipate, screaming desperation consuming every corner of his mind.

_Drowning. Air._

A force cracks against his temple. Thor slips into unconsciousness, lulled by the rhythmic throbbing sensation.

* * *

Clear, blue sky stretches beyond the reaches of Thor’s sight. He squints into the brightness of an early afternoon, soothed by the crash of a waterfall cascading down the soaked slate mountainside.

Thor knows this place. He knows the pool of shimmering water and the grassy bank dotted with yellow-orange wildflowers. He’s wooed Asgard’s comely maidens with picnics in this clearing, beside the gently flowing stream.

But it’s wrong. Gulls cry overhead—coastline birds, not found in the forests. The woods thin mere paces past the clearing, becoming a well-cultivated orchard of golden apples. Goats bleat somewhere nearby, though on Asgard this clearing is leagues from any homestead.

Thor rises. Vertigo overwhelms him. He twists, catching himself on his elbow.

When his balance returns, he climbs to his feet, scrutinizing the surroundings. Besides the wrongness of the scenery, there’s nothing immediately suspicious—no threats Thor can detect.

Mjölnir is absent.

Thor raises a palm high, listening for her familiar song.

Nothing. He cannot hear her.

“It is safe at the bottom of my sea. But it cannot reach you here. Nothing can, save for myself and what or who I allow.”

Adrenaline floods Thor’s system. He scans the area, following the voice.

Red eyes glow, peering from a half-submerged, blue face. Water droplets glint where they’ve settled along the intricate ridges twisting over the creature’s brow.

The creature emerges to their shoulders. The surface of the stream bubbles around them.

“Finman.” Thor pours fury and insult into the word.

The finman smirks. “I did not know _gods_ bothered with gender. How quaint.”

Thor grins, ignoring him. “I challenge you. You and your kind have terrorized the mortals of Orkneyjar. I will permit it no longer. They are under my protection.”

“Will you defend the fish from the mortal ships that terrorize them? Do you slay dragons when fools wander into their den to be devoured? I hunt only in my waters, which the mortals enter willingly to hunt their own prey.” The finman sighs. “Pointless to discuss, really. You have no power here, in this place built from my own to please you. Your challenge is meaningless. Besides, you have already proven you are no match for my cunning.”

Thor breath catches, witnessing the creatures face shimmer green, momentarily pale and gaunt. The face of the lost Midgardian, Ikol. “You!”

Blue chases seiðr, returning the finman’s true face. “Me,” he snickers. “Though, I lied to you. I am not Ikol. I am Loki, Son of Laufey. I apologize for the deception—Well, no, I don’t. You were so beautiful—nay, stunning—bathed in lightning. I could not resist.”

“You will pay dearly for attacking the Prince of Asgard,” Thor warns.

Loki beams, revealing razor-sharp teeth. He dips beneath the stream, cutting through the water toward the bank. He hoists himself ashore, fingers sinking into the mud and damp grass. “I eagerly await any punishment my seiðr will permit you to subject me to. I hope you have an active imagination, _God of Thunder_.”

Bile rises in Thor’s throat. “Stay back.”

Loki pivots his hips. His tails lifts, skimming the surface. He whips it.

Water strikes Thor’s eyes and enters Thor’s nose, blinding him and burning down his airway. He splutters and coughs.

Loki’s shape slinks nearer, lower half shifted into spindly, malformed legs. Thor blinks to clear the blur from his vision. He retreats, unsteady and disoriented, shame and fear sinking into the pit of his stomach.

Thor’s ankle catches. He stumbles, striking the ground hard.

Loki’s shadow passes overhead.

Thor steals himself, tempest roiling in his gut. He tastes the storm, though it builds beyond Thor’s reach.

Loki invades Thor’s space, leering. Thor’s instincts work quick. He attempts to utilize their proximity to pin Loki.

Loki catches his wrist. His pitch-black claws bite into Thor’s flesh.

He traces the veins straining beneath the skin of Thor’s bicep with a slender, blue finger. “This needn’t be a hardship for either of us.”

Thor glares.

Loki’s wicked grin widens.

“Husband.”

**Author's Note:**

> When I first encountered the mythology around finfolk, I thought instantly of Loki. Go read up on them. After that, I thought of a pre-Thor Thor, full of bluster, seeking a fight without thought and being victimized.
> 
> I never did decide if the woman Thor speaks to was Loki or not. I'd be curious to know if anyone thought she might be.
> 
> [Tumblr](https://foundlingmother.tumblr.com/) | [Dreamwidth](https://foundlingmother.dreamwidth.org/)


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